“My word holds,” she said. "You open it, Ruth. ‘Laisse-moi!’ Impatience swamped him. The street was deserted, no pedestrian school-goers walked immediately in front or behind them. He picked up the broken fiddle and beckoned. He was alone, hatless and without his boots, and he held a wicked-looking French-made duelling pistol, covered in silver and gold— property no doubt, was Melusine’s fleeting thought, of the late vicomte. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart.
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